


the lies and half-truths we tell

by captaincastello



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, First Love, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Nostalgia, Pining, Talking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-28 01:39:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12595188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincastello/pseuds/captaincastello
Summary: Once upon a time, they had been a little under 30 inches apart. Now they were whole years, stories, experiences further from each other. Shiro in college and Shiro advancing to the adult world all seem like lifetimes in which Keith doesn’t belong to, ones in which Shiro is never within reach, always out of sight and yet never out of mind. Why does this only make Keith ache all the more for him?





	1. unexpected reunion

**Author's Note:**

> it's 3AM  
> this work is unbeta'd; all mistakes are mine

 

 

The pub was already half-packed when Keith arrived an hour earlier, most of the tables and booths already occupied by the still sober or slightly inebriated customers. This isn’t exactly his scene, but after some careful consideration of all their options on where to meet up, he and the rest of the guild members finally settled on this place because it was the nearest and most convenient spot anyone available could come to during their free time. That, and it was an extremely rare opportunity for most of them to even be coincidentally on the same side of the International Dateline, albeit this gathering was a side trip, like a minor quest except everyone was very much willing to do it.

Despite it being the first time everyone from the guild has ever met in person, it wasn’t quite difficult spotting a booth full of _Legendary Defender_ nerds from the entrance, and Keith knew right away that he belonged. He had confidently come up to them when someone –username _Nebula_ or Erik Fierro, as he’d later find out—spoke to him in their pre-arranged code: “When I say ‘Vol’, you say…?”

“Vol… tron?” He never did get it right, but that told everyone right away that he was _Blade_ , the assassin-class who never hesitated to kill his character off without preamble as long as it was strategically necessary for the benefit of the guild.

Now, a few shots of whiskey and scotch and two buckets of chicken wings later, everyone present had guessed who each member was based on the way they talked or what items they were levelling up. It’s also becoming clear who wasn’t there yet despite their promise to come.

“So it’s the guild master himself, huh?”

“Anyone chat him up on Discord?”

“I think he mentioned something about arriving late? He did say he’d get off from a seminar at 7PM but that he’d have to commute.”

“Should be any time now then.”

Then, as if on cue, the pub doors open and in comes a tall man in a simple yet elegant top coat with black leather crossbody satchel, his face half covered by the maroon scarf wrapped around his neck. The others don’t seem to notice, what with all the activity and excitement in the small yet packed establishment, but Keith does, because this newcomer also seems to notice him back, as if somehow their eyes just managed to find each other among the vast sea of strangers’ faces and settled there, like a ship drawn to the beam of a lighthouse through a thick, dense fog. It only lasts for a split second, but Keith can feel a little warmth spread from his neck to his face, and it definitely isn’t from the buzz induced by alcohol.

Maybe it’s because the tall guy’s face is getting closer, maybe it’s not too ridiculous to think that Keith really is a beacon guiding him to shore…?

“Oh,” _Bayonette_ – Chandra Khatri – finally says when they notice him coming over. “When I say ‘Vol’, you say…?”

“Tron,” came the immediate reply. The scarf is covering everything from his nose down, but Keith can tell that he’s smiling from the way his eyes turned into adorable half-moons behind thick black-rimmed glasses.

“ _Helios_!” Almost everyone calls him out by his User ID in chorus. All of them, probably also thanks to the influence of liquor, sort of stand up and pull him over for a hug, inadvertently pushing Keith who is sitting at the edge of the booth towards him, and so for a good few seconds they all stand there, this small group of practically strangers who bond over an online game, kind of swaying on their toes with their arms around each other, with Keith sort of in the middle of the standing dogpile inhaling the pungent scent of alcohol and sweat, and under all that, a whiff of their leader’s cologne, a fine aromatic fougere. Then they all part, and he’s sure his face looks as flushed as he feels.

“Thanks,” Helios says once everyone’s back to their places in the booth, and he unbuttons his coat and slides into the seat beside Keith because it’s the nearest, and because there’s no other place to sit down on. “Although I think I understand you all want me to pay for the next round for being late.”

The others who were still sober enough erupt in laughter and barely masked denials and the merriment ensues, now with a very generous addition of more chicken wings and fries and whiskey. Maybe it’s the cramped space in this adult-filled booth, but Keith is kind of really aware of how he’s bumping shoulders with the leader. It’s not as if they’re not close online – everyone in their guild has found family in each of the members hence the immediate familiarity and camaraderie even at their first gathering outside the virtual world —but Keith has always had this sort of hero-worshippy feels for him that’s making him somewhat self-conscious at finally breathing the same air as him, moreso at being in such close proximity that there’s warm contact all over his right side. It’s almost like a small town kid meeting his international basketball idol, if Keith was into basketball.

Beside him, Helios takes off his scarf, and Keith’s eyes grow wide because not only is he real gorgeous underneath that thick wool, but also because even just his stunning side profile is enough to drive Keith back into a deep lake of nostalgia—

“Takashi Shirogane,” he says that all too familiar name, probably answering someone across the table who’d asked. He says that so casually without knowing that he just sent Keith back to elementary school. Then he turns to him with a big smile, his eyes all soft as if to tell him he remembers, as if to remind him of the nickname everyone, including Keith, used to call him. “But I go by ‘Shiro’.”

Shiro absolutely has no idea that he just sent Keith all over the moon.

 

 


	2. 1AM

It’s a little after 1AM when the group finally dissolves. There were those who were so wasted they had to be sent to their hotels through different cabs, but the rest either had a friend or lover in the area to fetch them, and a few were still sober enough to commute by themselves.

Amidst all the drunken chorus of farewells with promises to keep in touch and liquor-heavy pats on the back, there’s a single pair of people who don’t exchange farewells, who shook hands with the rest save for each other. Somehow, these two just simply left, not really together because they never said anything about leaving together, and yet they walk in the same direction, away from the pub and everyone else, into the near-empty streets of the city. After a awhile, it doesn’t seem like they’re making their way to the nearest train station, but Keith doesn’t really mind.

It’s entirely unplanned, yet it also feels almost automatic and absolutely natural that they’d fall into step like this just like in days gone by.

They’ve gone through the basics over dinner—Keith was there because of a small translation job a college friend had recommended him for over winter break, Shiro was around the area because of a week-long seminar. Did Shiro need to be back so he could prepare for tomorrow’s session? Not really, he replies, there’s a lot of participants for anyone to notice he’s late the next day. Was it alright for Keith to extend his night out in town? No worries, he says, except he omits the fact that he has three manuscripts and a deadline of two days.

“You’ve really grown,” Shiro says wistfully. “Imagine me having drinks with you. Back then you were only a head past my elbow.”

“Well, it has been around a decade,” Keith replies. He’s now older than Shiro was when he took up his dad’s offer of tutoring him. He stares at their boots and silently notes that they’re almost the same size. “You have braces now.”

“Heh, yeah, never too late, right?” Shiro chuckles, a really warm and pure sound, kind of old man chuckle that Keith always found endearing. “I’ve always set money aside for grown up stuff like a house, but I suddenly had this urge a year ago to have them.”

“You don’t look bad in them,” Keith immediately adds, and withdraws the extension of _I don’t think it’s within your capacity to ever look bad at all._ Also after the instant he blurts that out, he feels like an idiot for saying something unnecessary and maybe even kind of weird, because do dudes even ever really comment on another dude’s teeth like that? Should that even be a topic of conversation for two people who have never seen each other in years have at half past 1AM?

“Thanks,” Shiro says after a pause, a gloved hand up to adjust the scarf around his neck. “You look great with your hair grown out, by the way.”

Back then, Keith had adhered to a strict school haircut policy. Now he was free to sport the mullet, but this was really more because he was either too lazy to go to a barber shop or to cut his hair himself. There were just other things he’d rather focus on than his hair, but now that Shiro has mentioned it, he somewhat feels a little embarrassed. But maybe the heat in his cheeks was a remaining effect of the alcohol in his system, ergo it feels reasonable to feel this light and airy.

“How’s your dad? He alright taking care of the shop by himself?” Shiro asks. Apart from tutoring Keith, he also worked part time as a delivery boy for their small sushi business.

“He’s doing great,” Keith replies, remembering the time he had come with Shiro on one of his runs. His dad had been curious and excited, because it had been the first time Keith ever expressed any interest in the family business, except Keith was only really interested in Shiro and his thighs working the bike as they went around town. “Business never dwindled even after I went away for university. Last I called him he said he was planning to treat himself to a European tour or something.”

“Wow, that sounds so much like the old man,” Shiro says, another tiny laugh painting his voice. He goes on to ask more stuff about things back home, to which Keith is more than happy to fill him in. Light, everyday things that seemed disconnected to either of them in this moment – such as a batty old neighbor’s equally batty old cat, or the antique-themed pastry shop near the square, or even the allegedly haunted well behind the local middle school – all these and more highlight their conversation as they make their way to particularly nowhere, every step and every word dripping with fondness and bittersweet nostalgia. This was nice, Keith thinks, and he wouldn’t mind just being like this until one of them decides to walk a different path come sunrise.

A little part of him, a tiny portion that he’s feeling guilty about and is trying real hard to push back, is getting a bit impatient and is itching to steer the conversation to something much more rooted in themselves personally, unsatisfied with this blanket of courtesy and cautiousness that maybe he himself had established since the pub. The back of his throat is filled with suppressed _I’ve missed you_ ’s and _How have you been_ ’s that extends to a rather unabashedly assuming __without me__ …

_How was college for you? Who was with you when you got a call and found out your parents were getting divorced? Why did you only come home to visit while I was away in summer camp? Was it difficult finding work after graduation? Do you know I still wrote to you even long after you stopped writing back? Are you happy with your job? Do you have a girlfriend? A boyfriend?_

Why does simply asking feel like an entire mountain to climb, a dragon to slay? Have they been apart long enough that merely asking for a tiny peek into his life feels like an intrusion?

Why he feels the need to subdue these perfectly normal queries, he’s quite aware of, and yet that truth is something he also dares not to address, because he’s convinced himself that he’d be content with the world just giving them another chance to meet again, even only briefly, even with the knowledge of their eventual separation looming above them like a dark cloud.

He inwardly sends a thank you to wherever his dad is for endowing him with genes that had very high alcohol tolerance, because God forbid he spills anything incredibly incriminating tonight.

A tiny sneeze from a couple walking past across the faintly lit street catches their attention for a second. Their surroundings aren’t entirely deserted, but Keith had the sense that they were quietly alone together for a little while now until a foreign presence alerted them back to the real world. But of course, that might have all been just Keith.

When the couple had walked past, Shiro let out a tiny amused huff, as if remembering something funny.

“What is it?” Keith asks when he notices that Shiro’s eyes have settled on him in that same way he used to while watching Keith answer a math problem he had just explained.

“Nothing, I just,” Shiro begins, turning on this boots to fully face Keith. They’re both standing still under the collected pool of light raining down an antique lamppost, and Keith secretly hopes that his long hair and the shadow cast by it are successfully hiding what’s most likely the most self-conscious face he’s making.

“I just suddenly remembered that one time you got sick at Halloween.”

“Oh,” is Keith’s only reaction after what seems like a year-long delay, or more accurately, the only reaction he can muster, because an all too sudden and all too powerful wave of recollection and embarrassment crashes against him at full force and it’s taking all his strength to not give in to his knees.

“I-I’m really sorry about that,” comes his broken yet finally coherent reply, a hand flying out of his pocket to awkwardly rub at the back of his head. “I never should have insisted on going trick-or-treating with cough and colds and a fever. I’m sorry my dad had to call for your help and you had to miss your friend’s party.”

“There’s nothing to apologize about,” Shiro says, lightly punching Keith’s shoulder. “It was way more fun looking for the feverish serial killer hippo than staying at that party anyway.”

“Okay, I love hippos but they’re not scary enough, so I had to have a butter knife on me, okay?” Keith says in mock indignance and this wins him more laughs from Shiro.

It had been quite an experience, and quite a story when he was told the next day. He had insisted on going out that Halloween with his friends with the sole purpose of braving the old abandoned Beauregard Mansion that night, their local haunted house and then the most popular place to test one’s courage, until they found out years later that the spooky stories surrounding it were only rumors spread around by some college kids to hide the fact they were holding orgies there. Anyways, they didn’t know, and they scoured the grand mansion looking for ghosts, and not having found any, met outside on the porch, only to be filled with the horror that Keith wasn’t around. Half-convinced that his soul had been taken in exchange for everyone else’s safety, they had called his dad, who was busy manning the shop and had in turn called for Shiro’s aid. Not more than half an hour later, Shiro came by on his bike and they all went back in to find Keith safely tucked into one of the broom closets, temperature on the rise but otherwise uninjured. He only briefly woke up minutes later to find out that he was riding on Shiro’s back as he walked them both the rest of the way home with his bike in tow, of course after he had ushered all his friends back into the pumpkin-littered streets of their neighborhood for some real trick-or-treating, after which, he passed out again, and was sick in bed for the next couple of days.

“Seriously though, I really am sorry for being such a burden that night,” Keith says after Shiro has sobered down. “I don’t even remember much of what happened after passing out.”

“Really, it’s nothing,” Shiro smiles back, a warm hand softly ruffling the top of Keith’s head. “I’m just glad we found you.”

After a look that seems to linger for a second too long, Shiro quietly breaks away, and it’s time to step out of the pool of nostalgia, to step out back into the darkness and obscurity of Keith’s unresolved feelings and emotions, to resume their aimless walking into the night.

Keith doesn’t know if he wants to step out just yet, doesn’t know why his legs still won’t go back to normal.

Doesn’t know why he still lied.

Because of course he remembers. But it’s only in forgetting that he can still talk normally to Shiro.

That night, back in his room, after his dad had taken a pause from manning his kitchen to tuck him in and softly remind him about taking care of himself more, after he had given Shiro a surgical mask and left him to take care of Keith for a little bit until he made sure he was asleep, Keith had done something he’s sure will be impossible for him to forget.

Maybe it was because of the way Shiro massaged his temples before he replaced the wet towel on his forehead. Maybe it had been the misty and almost fantasy-like haze that made everything but his room go away. Maybe it was how close Shiro had been to his face as he adjusted the pillows on both sides of his head. Maybe it was the thrill of surviving a dubiously haunted house, or the medication that gave him the courage and strength to slightly push himself up from the bed, and press his face against the thin fabric of Shiro’s surgical mask. He had his eyes closed the entire time, and his head was spinning for an entirely different reason far from deteriorating physical health, that he naturally fell into a deep sleep, thinking that he’d just passed his real albeit unplanned test of courage.


	3. 2AM

It is around 2AM when they come out into a small plaza that might have been densely packed with people had the night been younger. In the middle of the simple yet elegantly placed statues and statuettes and leafless trees sat a large fountain where a small crowd of people are gathering, some standing up and swaying either from alcohol or from the music or both, some sitting down on the scattered benches or on the fountain itself, all engrossed and held captive by the beautiful melody birthed from the guitar and its skilled bard.

Quietly, they join the crowd, their light talk about guild strategies and event item farming put to an abrupt end by the soulful strumming, a powerful yet soothing cadence reverberating through the still winter air and into their hearts, and for a stark moment of clarity, Keith doesn’t feel as if they’re all strangers coincidentally arriving at this single point on the universe, instead it suddenly feels as if everyone is connected through the music, through the six nylon threads strung tight on the guitar. Maybe music really is the world’s universal language. The small bump against his shoulders and elbow alert him to Shiro who has begun swaying beside him.

Keith instantly feels warm, happy. He’s never been with Shiro like this, never gone out with him like this.

“What’s he playing?” Shiro asks a young Hispanic woman who’s swaying a couple of steps to his left. “It’s really nice.”

“Oh, nothing in particular,” comes the chirpy reply. “He just said he was going to play the ambience of the place.”

“That’s really cool,” Keith says more to himself than anyone else, thinking how turning the atmosphere into sheet music suddenly feels so simple and yet so beautifully poetic, such as painting melodies or dancing a poem. Maybe these things would appear to be absurd after sunrise, but right now it feels impossible to even recall anything that made him feel down in the last 24 hours.

He doesn’t remember when he’d stopped bumping elbows with Shiro, and when it started to feel like his shoulder was a constant reassuring pressure against his as they leaned against each other in unplanned yet synchronized swaying. It doesn’t even feel weird in a way that makes him want to push himself away from fear of Shiro finding out the real reason to the rapid beating in his ribcage. Maybe his body is revisiting the warmth it had been accustomed to during his elementary years, in which they had nightly been sat beside each other poring over textbooks and discussing ideas. Maybe it just feels nice touching someone without all the worrisome complications reality always brings.

 “This last beat goes to my wonderful muse, Teresa, who’s with me here tonight,” The bard says over the din of murmurs and tapping feet and snapping fingers, as he gestures to the young Hispanic woman standing near Shiro. She blows him a small kiss which he pretend-catches in the air. “ _Mi corazon_ , it is for you that I pick up my guitar. To all you lovers out there, thank you for bringing magic into the night.”

A collection of hoots and cheers sing in muddled reprise around them as people put their hands together for the talented bard.

“You’re both lucky to have each other,” Shiro says after the woman, who has gone to dance her way towards the bard.

“Thank you,” she says, her smile mystical and captivating in the smoky lights of the scattered street lamps. Then she gestures to Keith, and adds, “And you guys as well.”

She dances her way towards the fountain in the middle where the bard is, leaving a small disclaimer and a weak denial to remain lodged forever in the back of Keith’s throat. Instead of checking how Shiro is taking that last exchange, he continues to stare at her receding figure, wondering if they should still continue to sway, if he at all is still permitted to sway beside Shiro, because his mind is going a mile a minute thinking that Shiro probably already knows because what Teresa clearly meant about being them being lucky to have each other wasn’t inferred from their platonic shoulder-to-shoulder body contact, but rather from that of a version closer to what she had with her musician boyfriend.

What was it that gave him away? Maybe he’s leaning too much against Shiro? Maybe dropped an unguarded look that betrayed all his emotions for him? What would Shiro think?

Suddenly it happens, and he knows it was bound to, and Shiro’s warmth disappears from his side. Keith swallows, unable to hide the growing panic inside him that somehow he ruined the entire atmosphere of their midmorning walk somehow.

Keith expects the accusatory or even mildly suspicious __“_ What did she mean by that?” _or something along those lines to come barreling his way, but instead, a pair of gloved hands find the cuffs of his duffel coat, and pull them up and around Shiro’s neck.

“Wha-?” Keith  is about to start, but warmth pooling at each side of his waist suddenly throw all of his pending questions out the window.

“Tell me you remember 7th Grade,” Shiro says between them, fully facing Keith. He’s bowing his head down that his fringe is covering up half of his face, but there’s a slight tinge of bashfulness that’s painting the part of his cheeks that are poking out of his scarf.

And how could Keith forget? Shiro had spent nights prepping and training him for his first ever Freshman Dance. Due to the height difference, and because Keith had to know how to dance with a girl, it was Shiro then who had his hands clasped behind Keith’s neck, and Keith who had his hands around Shiro’s waist, as they tried to move their legs in sync to the beat of his dad’s timeworn love songs. As much as Keith had shown superior proficiency with his hands (he was already a stellar assistant at filleting fish for their sushi), he was a big klutz with everything else. He always stepped on Shiro’s socked feet, or bumped their knees together, or tripped on himself and grabbed on Shiro’s waist too tightly. Always he had done something wrong every couple of minutes because, well, it’s never easy being held that way by your first love, is it? And always, Shiro would just smile, and say, _It’s okay, I’ve got you_ , all the while entirely unaware that what he’s got is more than just Keith’s clammy hands.

Keith only nods and looks away, and it’s the first time he notices that every other couple, be it a romantic one or just a pair of friends who had happened on their small merriment in the plaza, are all pressed against each other in a slow dance guided by the soft mellow music of Teresa’s bard. Now that he thinks about it, it would have been weirder had Shiro not wound their arms together, and the adamant refusal to dance might have been a bigger giveaway of his own feelings than otherwise.

“I hope you’ve learned not to step on people’s toes?” Shiro says lightheartedly, prompting Keith to look back up at him with a witty rebuttal ready to fire, except when he does, their gazes catch and his breath hitches and his lungs and legs give out, all in no particular order. It’s only now that they’re pressed this closely together that Keith realizes that he’s grown tall enough to need no further than look a little beyond his own eyelashes to meet Shiro’s eyes.

Once upon a time, they had been a little under 30 inches apart. Now they were whole years, stories, experiences further from each other. Shiro in college and Shiro advancing to the adult world all seem like lifetimes in which Keith doesn’t belong to, ones in which Shiro is never within reach, always out of sight and yet never out of mind. Why does this only make Keith ache all the more for him?

He looks away, unable to sustain eye contact for longer, and prays his gratitude to every deity that right now he’s also just tall enough to hide his face in the warm nook of Shiro’s neck and shoulder. This means he’s full-on embracing him, though. Is this allowed in the unofficial unwritten code of platonic bros? If Shiro doesn’t mind, then Keith decides that he shouldn’t really mind, either.

“Sorry, I think I’m still a little woozy from the whiskey,” he mutters into Shiro’s maroon scarf, and he hopes this little lie will sell. Blame it on the alcohol, as they all say. Then, Shiro’s strong arms snake further from just his waist to his entire back, his right hand going up and down in small soothing arches across the length of his spine.

“It’s okay,” comes Shiro’s soft voice against his ear, and he says the one thing that amplifies the already loud banging inside Keith’s chest. “I’ve got you.”


	4. 3AM

Around 3AM—they find themselves walking along the seawall, the wind picking up from where it was being carried far beyond the dark horizon. Despite the fog, the inky sky seems woven into a single cloth as the murky sea, giving the illusion that heaven and earth are for once, connected. Tiny shards of light, like scattered pieces of stardust, interrupt the darkness in some places, yet they weren’t as dense and spectacular as what Keith remembers from the view from the mountainside back at home.

They spot a flight of stone steps flanked by steel railings going down to the sandy shore below, where the white foamy waves gradually soften their powerful approach before meeting their end on the sand. A few lit lamps and moving flashlights speckled the gossamer veil of fog gathered at the base of the seawall, telling them that there were some people walking about. They exchange a single look, and instantaneously mirror each other’s smile.

“Like 7th Grade New Year’s Eve?”

“Like 7th Grade New Year’s Eve.”

Before they descend, they stop by a nearby convenience store to purchase a small pack of sparklers, and with an almost childish grin, Shiro takes hold of Keith’s cuff and they both make their way down the stairs, careful not to slip on the thin sheet of ice settled on the smoothened stone, until their boots hit the soft uneven mounds of sand. Somewhere to their far left, a group of young people had set up a fire and were sitting in a circle around it, one of them playing a country song on her ukulele; to the right, more groups and pairs of people either sitting on a blanket counting the waves on the dark sea, or idly walking the length of the shoreline. The wind is stronger here compared to when they had been up on the seawall, but with an impish excitement in their veins, a little breeze doesn’t seem to matter.

They quickly find a spot fairly secluded from the other nocturnals and their campfires and battery-produced lights, where they would unleash their mini handheld fireworks.

“Ah, crap,” Shiro says as he fishes out the pack from his satchel. “I can’t believe I forgot the next most important thing.”

“What?”

“We can’t light the sparklers without matches. Or a lighter,” Shiro says, his tone even yet tainted with a bit of disappointment.

“Ah,” Keith says, his hand immediately flying to his coat pocket. He takes out a brass lighter and flashes a grin at Shiro, whose slight frown immediately morphs into a knowing smile. They take a small step closer to each other, ready to birth fire and light.

“Lucky charm,” Keith says as he flicks the lid open and lights up the tips of the sparklers. Shiro positions a hand over the sticks in an effort to block the sea wind so that the flame stays alive enough to ignite the sparklers. _Since I gave you mine before you left_ , Keith thinks, yet like pretty much most everything that’s meant to be heard by someone, he holds it back, his words heavy in his heart, dead in his mouth.

Keith’s prized S.T. Dupont lighter – a device coated with aubergine marbled Chinese lacquer, polished and palladium plated—a lucky find discarded in a friend’s front yard that Keith secretly took possession of because of the mere fact that it both scared and fascinated him when the flame shot out. He had kept it in his desk drawer, never showed it to his dad because he might take it away, didn’t even show it to his friends because they might try to use it for mischief. It had become his own little secret, that it made him feel slightly guilty and dangerous, despite no real intention of burning anything down.

And yet of course, like all secrets, somehow they escape out into the open, and one afternoon the lighter was in his dad’s hand, a few questions on his lips. Keith had been stunned speechless, unsure whether he should be angry first about his dad just entering into his room without permission, or to be apologetic, and quickly cook up a believable excuse about why he had it in his possession.

It was Shiro, who had only started coming by for tutoring a couple of days prior, who himself had never seen the lighter, who had no solid idea then about who Keith was and what he liked and disliked, stepped in and claimed the lighter as his own. Keith stood in confused amazement how Shiro apologized for ‘clumsily’ leaving something he didn’t even own, for unintentionally exposing a child to a potentially hazardous article, for even bringing something like it in their household in the first place when all he was requested to bring were textbooks and educational materials. Keith’s dad had muttered something about probably letting Shiro off his tutoring duties permanently, and that was when Keith finally found his voice—they should let him stay, how could he do that, Shiro did nothing wrong, if it wasn’t Shiro then it can’t be anyone else.

In the end, Shiro became a most welcome guest in their house and everyone’s favorite delivery boy, until he had to leave for college when Keith was in middle school. Even if much later it became apparent that Shiro never even smoked, Keith’s dad never brought up the subject again.

It seems cheesy and embarrassing to think about it now, but Keith had slipped the empty lighter into Shiro’s duffel bag while they said their farewells in the train station. All he thought at the time was how he wanted Shiro to take a piece of him with him to his new life. He didn’t even ask if Shiro ever found it while he unpacked.

“There we go,” Shiro says, excitement evident in his voice as he steps back from Keith to allow the sparks room to freely flutter about. He hands half of the bundle for Keith to hold, and like the kids they had once been, they run, leaving tiny uneven trails of sparks and boot-prints in the sand. Shedding away the skin of adulthood, even if for a while, they jump around, laughter rich and spilling from their chests and into the night air as they pretend they had really short swords or long claws in their hands. They take a few pictures of each other and with each other, so that Keith could send some to his dad later.

In the pitch-black blanket of midmorning and the smoky haziness of the winter fog, it’s almost as if they are holding stars in their hands. Even if their light is short-lived, even if they are bound to burn out, the magic and wonder they have rekindled will last for much longer.


	5. approaching dawn

They sit side by side in the sand, sparks all gone out, all glory of light returned to the stars themselves. Most of the people who had been there when they came had gone, leaving only smoke from charred firewood or tiny glimmers in the sand from dying cigarettes. A while ago the two of them had gone back up to the seawall to look for coffee, and had come back to a spot somewhere in the middle where the sand wasn’t too damp or too soft to settle their butts onto while they waited for sunrise.

They talk some more, even play a little game of telling stories through mock voice-acting about the few people remaining on the sand, such as the man walking his dog which suddenly went and humped a rock, or the pair of friends digging in the sand only to find a discarded rubber boot and a used diaper, or a couple silently bickering after the girl’s face turned sour while the guy was serenading her with his guitar.

As Keith sips from his warm paper cup, his mind just casually decides to go review the last few hours they spent since their unexpected reunion—from their eyes meeting instantly in the pub, their alone-together walk on the streets, the peaceful and almost dream-like music appreciation session in the plaza, actual dancing except it was really just Shiro holding Keith up while they sort of swayed together, more walking until they reach the seawall, playing with sparklers in the sand, and finally here, enjoying their coffee while they sober up on the sand, Shiro’s actually-long-scarf now wrapped over the two of them because staying still only made them prey to the chill. Had this been a slow-paced time-warped heterosexual romance movie, would he feel more confident about calling everything they’ve done to be intimate? Because that’s exactly how it’s playing in his mind right now.

Between the two of them, is he the only one who’s feeling nervous? Is he the only one who’s feeling incredibly guilty for not being totally satisfied, despite what he had initially told himself? Is he alone in wishing they could go back to where the night began? Is it only him who’s silently screaming at the universe for a way to make a moment last forever?

Because one day, when he would look back, this will be the moment that he’s sure he will remember forever—their bodies facing the ocean, shoulders touching, Shiro wordlessly letting Keith’s weight settle against his left side, their thighs pressed together, because Keith can blame everything on the cold or the alcohol, and maybe he can even go as far as saying that his neck muscles froze, because he just can’t stop staring at Shiro’s side profile, can’t stop himself from reconstructing Shiro’s face in his memory, enhancing the features of the boyish high schooler into this gorgeous temptation of a man, can’t stop himself from rediscovering the tiny moles and other small blemishes on his face and ears and neck, can’t stop himself from wishing that he’d see himself reflected on Shiro’s eyes behind his glasses until he __does__  see himself—his own dark hair flowing down either side of his face, his dilated eyes, his cheeks and the tip of his nose rendered a shade of pink by the cold, his parted lips nearly failing to keep a sinful confession at bay—

All this, looking back at him, through Shiro’s eyes.

Keith almost swears that winter just took all the air in his lungs.

Shiro is looking at him.

No, Shiro is _also_  looking at him.

Who actually is catching who staring right now?

He doesn’t know whose body stops facing the ocean to face the other instead, whose weight shifts and whose shoulder leans closer, or if it happens at all because the motion is so small and insignificant that it still seems like their boots are still pointing at the horizon, where a thin slice of sun is beginning to peek out, and they both jump in their skin and the next thing Keith knows is that he’s watching the emerging sun put the lingering stars to shame even in its slow climb to full blinding brilliance, how, with its return from sleep, it has separated the sky again from the earth, making it clear that there will always be a line through both, reminding him that unless cloaked with the illusion of darkness, they can never erase that line and be made into one.


	6. sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this work was tagged 'complete' as a one-shot almost a year ago, but i always felt like i wanted to redo the ending. this is one of the works i absolutely felt passionate about, and i felt every word as i wrote it. i feel like i want to improve on it a bit more, hence this revision. i hope i could continue writing it and give it the ending it deserves. thank you to everyone who has read the original version <3

It’s a little before 7AM when their leisurely walk ends and they reach the nearest train station from the seawall. The morning light seems too overbearing, as if with it also came a large invisible weight that settled on Keith’s shoulders. Maybe it’s just the alcohol, he thinks, or maybe it’s a form of withdrawal come early now that he knows he’s about to lose something again.

“I’m southbound.”

“I’m heading up north.”

They’re not even getting on the same train, let alone parting on the same platform. Almost immediately, all the things that make Keith feel bad seem to converge at a devastating crash into this moment in time, and water begins to pool into his eyes. He rubs them off on his coat sleeve, pretending to be rubbing at the sleep that’s finally caught to him. Maybe that’s exactly what he’ll do once he gets back—sleep long enough to wake up convinced that everything has been a dream.

They exchange numbers and a friendly embrace before Shiro runs off to the opposite street.

“Keep the scarf,” he says before breaking away. “It’s much colder over where you’re staying, anyway.”

It’s the last thing that passes between them, and Keith watches as Shiro sends him one last wave before he descends the escalators to the underground station, melting into the growing crowd of early commuters. It takes a couple of beats before Keith manages to unglue himself to the spot he’s going to remember as one of the loneliest places on earth.

Silently, he stands in line to pay for his ticket, his mind miles away in his old room and his old desk, books and pens and his hands and Shiro’s hands and small talks making for a perfect recipe of a lovely memory, of simple and quiet afternoons where he had Shiro all to himself, where things like distance and goodbyes didn’t matter as much because they always saw each other every day. But here, in the real world, distance and goodbyes are the only constant, and completing the combo platter with them are yearning, loneliness, aching.

They had started from Shiro’s little lie about the lighter, and maybe that’s how they’ll end too, with Keith forever omitting the truth about his feelings.

He doesn’t remember how he handled talking to the person behind the counter, or swiping his ticket in the slot to enter the doors leading to the train platform. Somehow, maybe he’s already sleep-walking, and can only barely manage in a handicapped state because a large chunk of him is surely still with that man standing scarf-less in his elegant top coat on the opposite platform. Amidst the gathering crowd of commuters lining up for the incoming train, the man catches his gaze, pulling Keith back to wakefulness.

Shiro is waving a hand, his smile brighter than the sun they just welcomed by the sea.

Keith waves back, and just then a horn blows, signaling the arrival of a train on Shiro’s side. A low rumble tickles the floor and a beam of light appears from his right, reminding him of his own impending departure. This also reminds him about the train ticket he only has a vague idea about—which pocket did he put it in again? He makes for a quick search in his coat, and thankfully he hasn’t lost it and it’s just sitting snuggly inside his right-hand pocket, along with his wallet and keys and this other rectangular object—

Keith pauses. The second horn, the quiet murmurs of groggy strangers, the entire station all seem disconnected from him, as if everything is existing in another separate world, as every atom of his body is suddenly entirely focused on nothing but the cool metal in his fingers. He fishes it out and brings it to his eyes, his senses already well-acquainted with what he’s holding, and sending rapid fire messages to his brain.

There’s a lighter in his pocket—familiar, and dear. His original lighter.

Aubergine.

Palladium plated.

The name _St. Dupont_  clearly engraved along the rusting silver.

The one he gave away all those years ago, in hopes that it sent a piece of him to the one he knew he would miss the most—

A third horn, warning people to step away from the yellow line, pulling Keith back from momentary detachment.

Without thinking—no, without __over__ thinking it, he takes his phone out of his left pocket, presses call, puts the phone to his ear. He fears that heart is beating too loud for him to hear anything else.

“Keith?” comes Shiro’s voice on the other line.

“Shiro,” Keith almost sighs into his phone, relieved that Shiro picked up immediately after the first ring. Just standing there is making him feel breathless. He probably sounds hysterical when he speaks. “Remember that time I had a fever and I passed out and I couldn’t recall anything?”

The first train cabin pokes its head into clear view. In the next few seconds, it will cover the entire view of the opposite platform, before slowing down and taking a full stop to take its passengers, before whisking Shiro away to the south.

Keith’s voice is a lot more sober when he continues. “I lied.”

Then as if on cue, the speeding train rushes past, concealing Shiro, metal wheels screaming against the rails cutting through any other sound, cutting their already hanging conversation short, and will forever haunt Keith throughout the rest of the day, maybe for the rest of his life. There’s no sound on the other end of the line, and Keith doesn’t think he can handle setting his phone down just for the words __‘_ Call ended’ _to cruelly stare him in the face.

After what seems like the longest one minute, the train speeds away, carrying Shiro with it. All that’s left is another low rumble, then it’s gone.

_It’s gone._

Keith lets out a shaky laugh. Someone has to grab onto his arm to keep him from falling outside of the yellow line. He stumbles backward, unsure of what he’s supposed to do next. Maybe he should start avoiding train stations to keep from reminding himself of this pain.

“Ah,” comes Shiro’s voice in his ear. “My train just left.”

Keith almost falls a second time on his toes when he looks up and sees the near-empty opposite platform, Shiro standing right across from him.

It almost feels surreal. Keith still hasn’t found the words to speak, his mouth hanging open. He hears what sounds like Shiro clearing his throat, and he sees the man fidget with the strap of his satchel as if he's nervous about something that has nothing to do about missing his ride.

"I know this is crazy," Shiro finally says, something like a 30-mile marathon making him sound suspiciously out of breath, "And we just stayed out all night, but, I was wondering if maybe you'd like to get some coffee?"

 


End file.
